This is New Orleans.
We rock it out every day (and by ‘rock’ I mean eat, drink, dance, drink some more).
The average age of internment is lower then the national average (see above), but we sure live while we’re here- and then, there’s Mardi Gras.
Only for pros.
But this year is more intense- we’re hosting the Super Bowl right in the middle of it all!
Sweet Mary Mother of Jesus this is going to be interesting!
You can always identify a ‘visiter’ by their glassy-eyed stares, a HugeAssBeer to-go cup, and their commitment to not unload the thirty pounds of beads around their necks while they’re puking on the sidewalk.
“Can I help you?”
“Oh, I know you’re sorry.”
“I’ll just go turn on the hose.”
“No. No naps here. Let’s get you down to the neighborhood poop park where you can rest a bit.”
“Yes, you too sweetheart. Yes, they’re lovely. Keep your pants up. That’s a good girl.”
Now factor in an additional eighty thousand testosterone driven men who can no longer hunt for validation so they watch other men clothesline each other on a field of green (stuff) and power bump each others manly chests.
And they wear polyester jerseys!
The ‘live-here’s know to pace themselves, how to handle an all-day rum punch, a big game.
We never show our ta-ta’s in public because we’re not sun deprived and a sophomore from Wisconsin State with a u-tube deathwish.
We do our crazy in the Blue Room at Antoine’s, or the pre-party for Bacchus, or in front of assorted televisions at apleasanthouse.